


The One-Word Test

by Dale Pike (yesiamTHATdalepike)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Mycroft is a Softie, One True Pairing, Sherlock is a Girl's Name, The Doctor is Number Forty-Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesiamTHATdalepike/pseuds/Dale%20Pike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic about a boring client.  In sincerest hopes that the great story will also turn out to be a good one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One-Word Test

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loudest_Subtext_in_Television](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Subtext_in_Television/gifts), [ivyblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/gifts), [VictoryCandescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryCandescence/gifts).



> Apologies for:  
> 1) Spoiler alert for Series 4. Or 5. Or whenever they get around to it.  
> 2) Atrocities. I could probably be a good writer; if someone would just teach me how to use ellipses properly. And...
> 
> ...semicolons.
> 
> Update: It's been over a year and two episodes since I posted this. And wow, does it ever still hold up.

***

S takes the chair on the right and M sits in John’s. They glance through the materials on the table; M twirls a small box between his fingers. Smiles as he asks, “Are you sure about this?”

S wears a scowl. M knows that he’d rather not meet this type of client in Baker Street. Most clients are thick as pudding; they offer up bits of information without seeing overall connections. They fuss and fret and when it’s all over, some will fawn and say _Oh Mr Holmes... I owe you so much!_

Occasionally, S encounters someone who understands the case almost as well as he does. They come to him with ulterior motives. Not that these aren’t fascinating... S enjoys these clients all the more, of course. But it can get irritating; this need to consider themselves peers with the world’s greatest consulting detective. If he knows this about the client—which is certainly the case today—he doesn’t like showing where he lives.

But. Timetables and whatnot. M wanted to be here too. This will be amusing, if nothing else. Triumvirates of theft, forgery and blackmail are always entertaining.

S shrugs, putting his game face on. “Well. We said fifteen minutes. Let’s see what else she’s got.”

M restrains his chuckle, opting for his “ _and Scuttle_ ” face, as the client enters. Short, plain, reasonably fit but with a middle-aged outer-layer that belies fondness for telly. Sensible shoes, gait of someone who works in healthcare, authoritative, but not a doctor... this woman’s job is physically challenging too. She’s obviously had at least one baby and wears a gold wedding band; dirty, and a silver necklace; clean. She’s clearly made an effort to try to look nice and clearly doesn’t actually know how; hair is brown and boring, she wears no other jewelry, her make-up is the wrong shade, shirt is brand new—bought for today, M thinks—but not flattering; poor fabric and showing the tan lines of someone who browns incidentally in a garden and doesn’t ever think to visit a salon. An ugly duckling; the perfect picture of nobody important.

Oh... and not _local_. Well, they knew that already.

She makes eye-contact and smiles, but not overly so. Sits in the chair that’s offered and puts on a plausibly confident front. The only thing betraying her intense nervousness is her wrists.

“Alright, you’ve got my attention, Mrs Pike,” S mutters, glancing at her ring finger. Her eyes flutter there for the briefest moment. He riffles through the documents in his lap. “We don’t have a lot of time for you, so you’ll have to make good on your promise. You said in your letter that truth is singular.”

The woman nods and opens her mouth, but S continues, “Well. _Thief_.” He draws out the fricative ‘f ’ just a little. “Convince us, in ONE word, why we shouldn’t just let the authorities deal with you?”

She gives him a cheeky look that reads _You’re one to talk_ but then sits quietly, swallowing, pursing her lips. The anxiety is real, but the showing of it is contrived; her eyes dart around as if she’s trying to come up with a smart answer on the spot, when of course she already knows exactly what she’s going to say. After a few seconds, she portrays a _eureka_ smile and looks back up. Leans forward, clasping hands in a mildly beseeching gesture.

 _Out with it_ , M thinks. _Don’t disappoint_.

“Goose,” she says, a blue twinkle in her eye.

M briefly sees S’s smile, before it’s quickly covered again. To be fair, S isn’t quite the actor that M is.

And his tone is now more welcoming. S nods toward the items on the table beside M. “Resourceful of you to put all of this together,” he says, leaving off the implied _for an amateur_. “Quite clever, really.”

She nods, agreeing. “Frailty.”

“You don’t have to keep doing that. We’ll give you your fifteen minutes.”

Grin. “Fun.”

Suit yourself, S’s expression says. “You’ve indicated you’re afraid of what is going to happen.”

“Yes.”

“You know _for certain_ everything that’s going to happen?”

She doesn’t have to say _No_... her eye-roll and shrug say it for her.

“You think that someone is going to die. Why?”

“Cat.”

“And that someone else is not what they seem.”

“Wolf.”

“And though many others have dismissed the idea, you think a child is involved. For what reason?”

She ponders this, fingers flip-flopping with her thoughts as if there’s several paths to pursue, then cocks her head left, as if deciding to take a different angle. “ _Pond_.”

M sees S almost smile again but reins it in better, now that he’s getting to know Pike. M still glares, but rubs the black box in his hand appreciatively. The gold letters are wearing off. Fake, of course. He decides to chime in.

“Ms Pike, would you say that you know what this case is _really_ all about?”

Her eyes turn fully to him for the first time. “Wouldn’t.”

Odd phrasing. Things that are oddly phrased usually have meaning. “Then wh—“

She holds one finger up to her lips. _Shhh_.

M actually chuckles now. “Well. We’re in a locked room at the moment. The secret is safe with us, don’t you think?.”

Ever since that train ride — _Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do...? Ah, yes, and do you know what would be unforgettable?_ — they can often communicate near-telepathically. Now, in Baker Street, S shoots him a look. _Careful_.

M shoots one back. _Oh, brother. Have a little fun. It’s not like we’re the ones being tested here_. His gaze returns to her. “Come now. If you think you can actually summarize in only one word.”

Ah. She hadn’t anticipated this blatant a question; raised eyebrows in a surprised half-furrow, obviously pleased by the invitation. Starts to open her mouth, tongue lifted to the roof of it, just behind her teeth, and—

Bites it off, sinking canines into lower lip. Too easy. Eyes flash at M and then look inward with the intensity of someone who likes a challenge. They don’t dart around but stare fixedly at the fireplace, narrowing; genuine puzzlement. Only. One. Word.

 _You can’t do it,_ M thinks. _You need two. How do you decide which one is more important?_

Furrow gradually shifts to frown. Frustration. She wants to get this.

M sighs. _Don’t be too upset. It was fun. But now the game is—_

Pike looks up sharply at S. Begins to grin again, just perceptibly. Everyone in the room knows what the case is about; she doesn’t need to say that. Cocks head to the right. Another angle, then. Her eyes scan, reading inwardly. _Text, text. It’s all in the text_. Her lips part in remembrance of things most passionate and most pure, her fingers spread into a five and she silently counts through them, down to the last word.

When it clicks, her smile pours like honey from a spoon. She leans back, trying not to look smug and almost succeeding. _Got it_.

S waves a hand. “Well? Off you go, then.”

“ _Behind_ ,” she informs them, enjoying the double entendre.

S laughs. He can’t help it. He runs a hand through his curls and looks over at M.   _She’s good._

 _She’s damn good_ , M thinks back in his direction. _Or, at least, she could be someday. You should employ her talents in some trivial capacity; she might be useful_. Looking at Pike, he sees that she’s thinking it too... of course she would be. But, as M examines her carefully, he perceives it isn’t why she’s here. There’s something more important.

S starts, “Well, if that’s all, then—“

“Mistake,” Pike says sharply. She doesn’t need to qualify: BIG.

He almost looks startled. “Mmm? What is?”

“Plan.”

“What plan? Whose plan?”

She looks pointedly at him. This is why she’s come.

“Oh, _sure_ about that, are you?” S narrows eyes. “Why?”

She gets up and walks toward the window. Looks out; a slow sweeping gaze. Taking in the world outside. “Talk.”

“Talk?”

“Talk.”

“People do little else,” S snaps. He doesn’t say _That’s half the bloody point_. The look he gives the client is not quite his fuck-you face, but it definitely takes on a dismissive quality. _Well. We over-estimated you._

“Eagles,” she continues.

M tries to catch S’s gaze, but he’s not looking at either of them now. “Mrs Pike, you’re very insightful and obviously well-versed, but you clearly don’t have all the facts.”

No. She repeats her eye-roll/shrug of earlier but returns to staring him down, unconsciously rubbing her wrists together. Still nervous, despite her self-assuredness that she’s earned her fifteen minutes.

“Puppets.”

Some detectives use disguises. Some use tech. Some use a web of foils and informants and screens. S spreads his hands. It’s his case, after all. He can solve it however he damn well pleases. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Strings.” With obvious abhorrence for this idea.

“Alright. We’re done here.”

“Twisted.” Her head nods in the direction of the people on the street.

“Your time is up, Mrs Pike.“

As S says it, M realizes that this is the third time she has reacted to the title and, this time, with a downright flinch. Her thumb darts between fingers, twisting the band.

“ _Mrs_ ,” she parrots.

“Well, you _are_ wearing a ring,” he exasperates. “It’s not like you’ve used your real name.”

She grins jokingly, shrugging again. “Wet-job.” The nonchalant tone and head tilt is a perfect blend of Mary and Magnussen. She’s teasing, vying for more time, M thinks, and he opens his mouth to tease her back— _Hyphenated, yes, but don’t you think that’s cheating?_ —when he sees it. A flicker of something in her face that isn’t a wolf or a shark. A tightening in her jaw just as the last consonant rolls out, an in-drawing just above her clavicles, an echo in the well of her eyes; something that is both profoundly happy and profoundly sad and then it’s gone before the sound of the word fades; a bird shut back in its cage. Her hand, which had drifted up to touch her necklace, remains there thoughtfully but her gaze returns to its steely self and regards the two men for a long pause before looking back out the window. She sets her face with the practice of someone who has buried their heart for years.

But M had seen the door crack open for a moment. She obviously didn’t plan showing this; it’s the one thing in her manner that has not been carefully controlled since her entrance to the flat... but there it is. Why this case matters to her.

 _Oh, Mr Holmes. I owe you so much_.

M hasn’t done this sort of thing as much as S has, but he can tell when a client just needs a little reassurance. Talk them down from the ledge, softly. Softly.

“People will talk, Dale,” he says, with gentleness. “What should they talk about?”

Her faint image in the glass is a shadow that crosses the world outside. “Truth.”

“That’s the word that you came here to give us?”

She turns back toward them, her reflection turning away from itself but both sides of her visible to them.

“The word that I came here to give you... is _mirror_.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Patient Reader:  
> Didn't get it? Try the following:  
> 1) Sink your Sherlolly.  
> 2) Read the originals.  
> 3) Brush up on M-Theory (just try not to fall too far down that rabbit-hole).  
> 4) Watch that unforgettable adventure narrated by Peter Falk.  
> 5) Ask... who shines the light in your locked room?  
> Still nothing? No worries. It's just not for you then.
> 
> Dear S & M (& ST... sorry, but you were hard to work in):  
> Ok, I lied. I couldn't have done it in one word. It was so much better with the count at eighteen-hundred-ninety-five.
> 
> Oh... and pay attention, fellas. This was simply pilot fish.


End file.
